Come What May
by emcewan
Summary: In a world where Gustave Daae has not died and Christine has never come to the Opera Populaire, the Phantom is still singing his lonely songs. Somewhere, something listens and decides to intervene. The road to love and understanding isn't smooth, but it can make for beautiful music. AU, obviously. Erik/OC
1. Chapter 1

So this is the result of me watching Moulin Rouge at 5 a.m. and deciding, "hey you know what? What if Christine was never at the Opera because her father never died? Let's give Erik a happy ending, gods know he needs one." Then this. I blame the Moulin Rouge and 2004 POTO soundtracks for this. Please review, I'd like to see how if you lovely readers like the idea of this too.

Disclaimer: I do not own any copyrighted music or characters. I simply cannot stand the idea of Erik never getting to have true love. I make no profit except my own fangirlish peace of mind. Please no sue-sue.

* * *

_**Come What May**_

_The year is 1870, the warmth of early spring beginning to blush over frozen earth. The Opera Populaire is booming in success, the familiar players set... except for one small, minor detail. Gustave Daae has not fallen ill, has not died; he has just celebrated the recent wedding of his only child to her childhood sweetheart, Raoul de Chagny, with the promise to remain their personal violinist and give up his life of fame. It is small price to pay for his daughter's beaming joy._

_With this one simple change, a tragedy has been averted. The Phantom still haunts his beloved opera, loneliness his only friend and companion. He yearns for something he knows to be forever out of his reach—love, friendship, some semblance of normalcy. He believes there is no one who could ever love him._

_Somewhere, in the far-distant and twinkling stars, the music of his pain stirs pity. A plan to assuage his anguish is put into place, the luminous strings of time and space being plucked in an accompanying harmony. This new piece is softer, gentler; tempered with hope and joy, like the unfurling bud of a perfect rose..._

_A new story is taking place in the Opera Populaire, one you have never seen before. Take your seats as the heavy curtain draws away and enjoy the magic before you..._

* * *

The evening was cold, dreary; the chill of winter hadn't yet passed. The stagehand yawned, stumbling to the door, sniffling miserably. Blearily, he stared at the still figure blocking his way for a moment, blinking. Realizing it was, in fact, a _person_ he cursed, fumbling for a pulse. Shoulders sagging in relief as he found a strong, steady one, he pondered what the hell he was going to do now.

Madame Giry, he decided. She would certainly know what to do.

Pushing through the usual bustling commotion, he finally found the woman in the middle of a lesson, the limp body in his arms still as death.

"One-two-three, that's it, _petites_... Jean, what in heavens do you have there?" she exclaimed at the unexpected sight.

"I found her, _madame_. She was just lying outside the door..."

"Quickly, bring her here," she tsked.

Finding the young woman chilled and soaked to the bone, she quickly brought her to the ballet dormitories. Ordering a relieved but curious Jean out, she stripped the girl briskly out of her strange clothes into clean ones of Meg's and bundled her in blankets. She wondered for a moment if the girl was of the Phantom's doing, but let the thought go. She would learn in time; for now, the important thing was making sure whoever-she-was _survived_. She was lucky Jean had found her when he did, or else she wouldn't have survived the night.

She could wait to unravel the mystery of their new guest.

* * *

_It was cold_.

_So terribly, utterly cold._

Slowly, so slowly, warmth started to return to her half-frozen limbs. Teeth chattering, she forced her eyes open with more strength of will than body. She took the surroundings in with a sort of resigned tiredness.

"I must be dreaming," she mumbled, burrowing back into her precious warmth.

It was strange though—hadn't it been summer? Yes, she remembered now—it had been hot, muggy. She forced herself to try and remember what had happened. She had been driving, she knew; driving to see a friend. Then there was _singing_...

Grimacing, she was forced to let go of the memory; it physically pained her, forced a pressure in her head that made her distantly worry it would explode. She focused herself on the basics—keeping her eyes open, starting thinking. She could puzzle out the details later.

"I assure you, _madamoiselle_, you are not dreaming," an accented voice spoke softly.

Jumping slightly, she dredged up strength into her body to sit up slightly. She turned her head to look at the woman who had spoken.

"Where am I?" she whispered hoarsely, pulling the blankets around her more securely.

"You are in the _Opera Populaire_, _madamoiselle_...?"

"Charlotte," she whispered. "Charlotte Fairechild."

"Well, _Mmlle. _Fairechild, I am Madame Giry, ballet instructor. I do not know the details. Only that you were found by one of our stagehands unconscious and near to death at our door."

Wearily, she noted the implication of how she came to be here. If only she knew herself...

"I do not remember, ma'am," she whispered.

Raising an eyebrow, the older woman decided to not say anything. There was a nasty bump growing in the middle of an ugly bruise on Charlotte's forehead which would explain the amnesia. Green-grey eyes wide in her colorless young face, Madame Giry felt pity for her. She couldn't be much older than her own daughter.

"Sleep, Mmlle. Fairechild. You are safe now."

Blowing out the candle as she left, she walked away, troubled. Without memory of more than her name, there would have to be inquiries of the girl's family. For all she knew, she could be a wife, mother, beloved daughter. Yes, she would speak to the new managers and inform them that, until the girl's relations were found or her memory returned, the _Opera Populaire_ would find somewhere to fit her in.

Absorbed in her thoughts, she did not notice the figure slip in from the shadows...

* * *

_There was something different about her._

It might have been the pale tone of her sleeping face, but there was a softness there, a tempered sort of innocence. The dark gold of her hair contrasted with it, the lustre tempting. He touched it, finding it soft to the touch. He let himself wonder for a moment what she was like.

"I will be keeping an eye on you, Mmlle. Fairechild," he muttered before leaving.

_In her deep sleep, she heard the echoing strains of music again. They were so familiar, as though she had heard them all her life. Struggling to remember how it went, she let it wash over her troubled soul. So beautiful but so unbearably sad... _

_And deep within her, music rallied and answered. Sitting on a wooden stage she had never seen before in waking, she smiled at the empty seats. Somewhere, she knew someone was listening to her as she sang, determined to change to the melody, softening it into something sad but hopeful. There were no words—no words were needed. The music was everything, filling her, completing her._

When she woke, tears were streaming down her face. She tried to grasp the dream, remember it, but it had already faded. She didn't know if the tears were tears of sadness or of joy.

_Perhaps they are a little of both_, she smiled slightly.

Pushing herself to stand shakily, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Opening them, she stood to her full height on steadier limbs. She looked around her, frowning.

Had she been taken in by a theatre? Why hadn't anybody notified the police? Was there a Missing Persons out for her yet? How long had she been out?

She reached for her phone and panicked when it wasn't there. Cursing, she ran a hand through her disheveled hair. _It seems as though I have been robbed_. Shrugging, she decided there wasn't anything she could do about it at the moment. _One step at a time, Charlie-girl._ First, she needed to find out where she was and how she'd gotten... wherever she was. Then, after that, she could start to get her business back in order. She'd taken worse blows before—she'd land on her feet again.

She always did.

Now, deal with step one: the _where_. _How_ would follow on the heels of that, but solve what you can first. Madame Giry had had an accent, one suspiciously French. _Opera Populaire_, ehh? The way she had pronounced it had been distinctly French as well. Well, she could hardly be in France...

Could she?

Well... stranger things have happened in the world, she supposed. _Let's say I __**am**__ in France. Alright, seems as logical as anything else at the moment. In... an opera house. Right, Charlie, you're not crazy at __**all**__._

_Shut up, me._

_Fine. You're in an opera house in France. A very old-fashioned opera house, it seems, but one would assume as much for a __**bloody opera house**__. So what do you do? They might not like an American much... but cross that bridge if you get to it. See how long you've been out first. Work out from there. Sketch out the edges, no matter how roughly, and slowly fill in the rest. Like an outline. Figure out the details later._

Nodding, she pushed open the door.

She wasn't quite prepared for what lay on the other side.

Everywhere, people in fantastic costumes or handling props chattered or yelled instructions. Dizzying colors and sounds assaulted her senses. Despite the sheer absurdity of the situation, she grinned widely, heart bursting.

"It's like waking from monochromatic to color," she whispered in wonder.

"Ahh, Madamoiselle Fairechild!" a voice boomed.

Jumping slightly, she turned to see Madame Giry walking over to her with the elegance that only experienced dancers manage to have. Smiling weakly, she smoothed down the incredibly old-fashioned dress she wore. _Maybe it was a spare costume_.

"I have informed our managers that you will stay here until we find your relations or your memory returns," Madame Giry briskly informed her. Charlotte thought about telling her she had only lost her memory of the actual _incident_ then decided against it. _Let's see if I should or not._

"What can you do?" she inquired bluntly. "Can you dance? Sing? Sew? Paint? I must know where I am to place you."

"Uhh..." Charlotte scrambled. "I can do simple sewing. I'm pretty terrible at dancing. I guess I can sing okay..."

"Well, sing something for me," Madame Giry ordered impatiently.

Charlotte's mind went blank.

Opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water, she desperately tried to remember a song, _any_ song. How could she not remember one _stupid song_...?

"_How can you see into my eyes, like open doors? Leading you down into my soul, I've become so __numb. Without a soul, ahhh, my spirit sleeping somewhere cold, til you find it there and bring...it...back...home. Wake me up inside, wake me up inside, call my name and save me from the dark. Bid my blood to run, before I come undone, call my name and save me from the dark..._"

Everyone had turned and stared at the new girl singing the strange sound. Her voice was hardly perfect, but it wasn't terrible, and there was a longing behind it that was tangible.

"What an odd song," Madame Giry murmured, shaking her head. "Still though, not bad. I shall put you in the chorus. Come, it is time for dinner. You must be half-starved, you've slept for almost two days now. I was worried we might need to call the doctor."

Explaining her new duties as a chorus girl, neither of the women knew that in the catacombs a figure had frozen at the unfamiliar melody tinkling down to him. It had been rough, unpolished; but something of the song, something behind it, made him want for her to finish it.

It was time to pay the stranger a visit.


	2. Chapter 2

And thus, the mystery-and budding relationship-deepens. As always, please review and let me know if you enjoy it!

* * *

As Charlotte joined everyone for dinner, the lines of her mouth dipped down into a perplexed sort of frown. _Everyone's in costume_. _Maybe they're all Method actors?_ A pit of foreboding settled in her stomach, making her grow queasy. She tried to discretely guess what day it was (had she been driving to meet her friend on a Monday or Tuesday?) with context clues but so far was failing.

"Excuse me," she asked quietly, trying to be both charmingly polite and a little distressed-damsel. "But what day is this? I am still trying to make sense of what happened..."

She let her voice trail off into a sort of artful whimper, calling upon her not-too-shabby acting skills. Madame Giry gave her a strange look but took pity on her.

"Sunday, Charlotte. March 17, to be more specific."

Horror settled over her like a cloak. She froze, ducking her huge eyes behind her hair. Had she lost a whole _year_? Perhaps more?

"Wh—what year is it, may I ask?" she managed a pained croak.

Madame Giry set down her fork carefully, catching some of the rising panic her new charge was desperately trying to stamp down. Looking her in the eyes, she gauged whether it was all an act or if the poor girl had been made insensible by the innocuous information.

"It is the year 1870, Mademoiselle Fairechild," she spoke slowly, as if to a child.

Whatever color had been returning to Charlotte left her face, which had turned pasty and white. She quickly reached for her glass of water, hands trembling violently. Alarmed, Madame Giry wondered how large the gap was she was missing.

"I—I feel a little tired," Charlotte murmured faintly. "Perhaps I could lie down...?"

"Of course. Meg, will you show her to her room?"

The sweet blonde dancer jumped up lightly, concern painted across her pretty young face. Murmuring reassurances, she took Charlotte by her shaking hand with a quick squeeze. Fussing over the older girl, she covered her up with a blanket. Smiling gratefully, Charlotte thanked her warmly. Shutting her eyes, as if in sleep, and slowing her breathing, she waited for Meg to leave. As soon as the door clicked shut and the echo of footsteps died away, she pushed the blankets off and began pacing.

"So, it's 1870. _Fuckin' 1870!_ What the... how the hell...?"

Running a hand through her hair, she tried to make sense of the bizarre set of circumstances that had somehow landed her a century and a half back in time. She considered they were lying to her but dismissed it, concluding that it didn't fit. No, something had happened-

-_there was singing, in her and around her, such awful sad singing no one should be this lonely let me help oh god I want to help you I'll sing too oh god why does it hurt screaming screaming-_

Gasping, she fell to her knees, forehead pressed against the cold floor in attempt to soothe the agonizing... what? Thought? Repressed memory?

Shuddering, she forced herself back onto the bed. _Let it stay repressed, then_. Giving a wry smile to the empty room, Charlotte blankly looked at her hands. _I won't tell anyone. At best, they'll think my senses are still gone, at worst... well..._ _I don't really want to think about that. Insane asylums are hellish places in any time, and worse still in these dark days._

Deciding that she would make the best of the situation until she could figure out what had happened—if she _ever_ could—and simply... roll with it. She was safe for the moment, she had a job so she wouldn't be a charity case or on the streets, she had a place to sleep. All in all, she reflected mildly, it could've been much worse. Exhaustion flowed through her again, sleep cooing a siren song to her that Charlotte simply didn't have the will to refuse. Settling down to pass out, she hummed gently to herself the snatch of melody she'd remembered.

* * *

Long hours passed until she was awoken by Meg. The rest of her day passed quickly as Charlotte struggled to immerse herself in the world of being a chorus girl. Bewildered sometimes by the different world and social customs of the bustling opera house, a chorus girl named Anna had taken pity on her after hearing of her amnesia would whisper explanations. Charlotte rewarded her with cutting remarks about the pompous Carlotte, leaving Anna in fits of giggles so strong she could scarcely breathe. Whenever some of the leading chorus girls tried to pick on gentle Anna, Charlotte would intervene with some excuse to lead her new friend away. At the end of the trying day, the two girls were chattering like old friends.

"Anna... is there a place that's a little out of the way? I'd like to... er... pray," Charlotte asked lamely. What she really wanted to do was _think _in peace, but thought that would sound odd.

Anna's mousy face lit up.

"The chapel! No one ever goes there anymore," she gushed. "I think most people sort of forget it exists. Heathen opera folk!" she giggled. "Follow me!"

Dashing through dizzying halls and down stairways, Charlotte soon gave up all hope of ever trying to remember the way back. Figuring she could always just ask some random stagehand for directions, she started to murmur a childhood prayer... until Anna left. Letting the words slowly die away, she admired the stained glass angel, soaking in the blessed quiet.

"_Chaaarlooootte_..." a voice whispered like fading notes.

"HOLY SHIT!" she shrieked. "Oh shit oh shit oh shit, I'm cursing in a church ohhhh not good," she muttered, trying to calm her raging heart.

"_I did not mean to disturb you_," the rich baritone voice sang gently. "_I only wished to speak with you..._"

"Ohh, ummm... it's... okay? You just, um, startled me."

"_You truly do not remember?_"

"No, I truly do not," she snapped, rubbing her temples. "Sorry. I didn't mean to bark, I just... it's been a Day, you know? Aaaaaand I'm talking to disembodied voices now. In a forgotten church."

In his hiding place, Erik tried not to chuckle at the dry sound of her voice. He allowed himself a small, rare smile. What a curious little thing. Most girls would have screamed or assumed it was God Himself with a message. She took it for what it was: just a voice.

"So... do you have a name?" Charlotte inquired conversationally.

Erik was a little nonplussed by the question, but had devised an answer.

"_I am... the Angel of Music._"

She snorted.

"Look, sweetie, no offense, but I'm not exactly convinced you're a supernatural being. I'll need a little more proof of that."

Then he began to sing.

Jaw dropping open as the sound assaulted her senses, some piece slid into place. His music touched the deepest part of her soul, filling and completing a void she hadn't known she had. Unconsciously she began to softly sing with him, her harmony softening his lonely song and transforming it into something else entirely. She felt as though she had sang this song forever; had she? _She'd stood on the surface of the moon in spring, stars wheeling over head and this mystery being standing with her hand in his... and they had sang for centuries. Something had clapped, the sound booming as thunder..._

Sucking in air as though she were dying, Charlotte clutched her pounding head. _What was that?_ _**What had she seen?**_ Black spots swam in her vision. Before she hit the ground in a dead faint, strong arms grabbed her. The smell of musty ink and paper, laced with incense, filled her nose. Sneezing slightly, a calloused hand brushed hair out of her face. She leaned into the touch, strange but familiar somehow, like _deja vue_.

"Angel..." she whispered, surrendering to the beckoning shadows.

In the morning, she was once again in her own bed. She might have dismissed it all as a wild dream, except for the fact that there was a blood red rose in her hands that hadn't been there before...

* * *

Erik was not a man easily shaken.

Angered, perhaps. _But then again, I have much to be angry about_, he admittedly blackly. He tried to reason what it was he had seen, what he had felt, when he sang with Charlotte Fairechild in the dusty chapel. He had thought at first when she started singing that it would be awful; when she opened her mouth, the first note escaping, he thought he had died. The song they had sang (_what was it? I can't remember it now..._) had felt older than Time. The ghostly feeling of her small hand in his had filled him with a completeness and joy he had never dreamed possible. Whatever magic had happened, he wanted more of it. There had been no hesitation, no fear, in that moment.

Oh yes, Miss Fairechild was a stunning little mystery he couldn't wait to unwrap. The way she had looked up at him before she'd succumbed to unconsciousness had been sheer wonder. His unfathomably lonely heart clenched at the memory. He wished it was night again already, instead of mid-morning. He wanted to see if he could lure her to the chapel again, to see if she would sing once more with him.

Contenting himself to finding more about her, he watched as she gracefully moved through her day. It wasn't so much a physical sort of grace, but a grace of spirit. She always seemed to be smiling, eager to help. He'd noticed a few stagehands watching her appreciatively as she chatted with Meg and Anna. He didn't like it—he'd have to figure a way of making that more clear later. He couldn't really blame the boorish men though; she had full, luscious curves that would make any man take a second glance. As long as they didn't try anything, well... he was feeling charitable today.

Impatiently, he ground his teeth through dinner which seemed excruciatingly long. Madame Giry and those management fools made some silly announcements about the coming season (_we'll see about that_) and then finally, _finally_, he was free to see her. She did as he hoped, following his whispers of her name to the little chapel. Sighing in relief that she'd obeyed, he waited to see what she would say.

"Angel?" she called out hesitantly, as if not expecting an answer.

"_I am here, flattering child._"

Her lips quirked up into a ghost of a smile.

"I would hardly say I am either a _child_ or _flattering_, Monsieur Angel."

"_No, you are indeed no child_," he allowed his voice to smile back.

"I was afraid that you were just a figment of my imagination," she admitted.

Erik wanted to tell her that he was afraid she would not come; however, he didn't want her to feel as though she had a choice in coming. After all, everyone who'd ever had the chance to be near him had always chosen to turn away. He wasn't sure if he could bear it again.

"_I was afraid you would believe I was so_," he replied, settling for that admission instead.

She grinned, tipping an invisible hat. In his hiding place, Erik smiled at the childlike gesture.

"So, Monsieur Angel, tell me about yourself."

"_Tell you about myself_?"

"Sure," she shrugged. "Where do you live? What have you seen? What's behind the Door in the Sky, as it were?"

"_I have known... pain. Darkness in all other things except for music. I live in music, for it is my __single joy..._"

"I'm sorry," she interrupted seriously. "That must be terrible, for an Angel to have known darkness. It must have been hellish indeed. If I could... I'd give you a hug?"

"_Is that a question or a statement_?"

"Both!" she laughed. "For all I know, you could be covered in poisonous spikes and I would die. That would make me very sad indeed, dying because of a hug."

Erik laughed, the sound resonating through the space. Charlotte closed her eyes, revelling in the sound. It... made her happy, hearing him laugh. She thought she could live forever if she could only hear it every day. Troubled at the intensity of the emotion behind the stray thought, she reminded herself to tread carefully. So much was still lost to her, so much was unremembered. And what _was_... well, _confusing_ was an understatement.

"_What of you, Charlotte_?"

His voice, saying her name... She grinned. Ohh that could do things to a girl, it could! Like dark honey dripping slowly down her spine...

"I... am from far away." _Across time and space, apparently._ "I suppose I had a normal upbringing. Er, at least it _feels_ like I did," she blushed. "But I know a thing or two about loneliness," she mumbled.

Recovering with a bright smile, she peered around, trying to see if she could spot any indication of where he was. Giving up after a few minutes of comfortable silence, she initiated conversation again.

"You have a beautiful voice, Monsieur Angel."

"_I... Ahh, thank-you_."

"No, really. It's... breathtaking, to be honest. You should give lessons to Carlotte!"

Erik grimaced.

"_I believe Carlotte is a lost cause that not even an angel could help_."

Laughing hard at his dry sarcasm, she wiped away the tears of mirth. It was true, the woman's puffed-up vanity was obnoxious. She pitied the poor managers, she really did.

"Are you saying that there are limits to your great powers, oh Angel?" she teased, sticking out her tongue slightly.

"_Madamoiselle Fairechild, God helps those who help themselves._"

_**Unless they cannot do it on their own.**_

She started at the alien thought. It had almost not felt like hers; there was a distinct familiar-but-not flavor to it that made her stiffen.

"How true," she murmured to him, shaking off the feeling that already was slipping away.

"_And what of you? Do you desire to replace Carlotte_?"

Blinking at the absurd question, she shook her head.

"Angel, while your voice is decidedly _heavenly_, I am fully aware that mine is _not_. I am content with being a chorus girl."

"_I... that is, with my instruction, I could make you a Prima Donna._"

"Wh—what?" she sputtered. "But I don't exactly have the talent for it. Don't waste empty flattery on me, Angel. I have a decent voice, nothing spectacular, and opera isn't exactly my forte."

"_Give me six months of dedicated tutelage and practice. At the end, you might change your mind._"

"Mmmm..." she mused. "You know, if you wanted to talk to me every night, you don't have to try and bribe me with stardom to get it. You could just ask."

Erik's breathe caught. He truly believed she could be so much better with practice—her voice held such potential, such _emotion_, that some of even the best Prima Donna's never achieved. But yes, a large part of it was... he just wanted somebody to talk to. Madame Giry aside, he wanted a _friend_.

"_Would you... could you...?_"

"Angel of Music, I, Charlotte Fairechild, do solemnly promise to try to come here every night to talk and sing with you. I might not always be able to make it... but I will always _try_," she promised.

"_I will promise to always try as well,_" he vowed thickly.

"Good! Because I really have no idea whatsoever of how I could hunt you down if you reneged on your promise," she grinned. "Now, happier topics! What do you think of the new opera? I don't quite understand it myself, but then again, I'm unfamiliar with it. Help explain it to me?"

As he patiently explained it to the sharp, intelligent woman, Erik was nearly overcome with a strange emotion. Examining it, he realized that he was... _happy_. He enjoyed talking to her, and she had _promised_ to keep talking to him.

He had a friend.


	3. Chapter 3

Got into a minor car wreck. Contusion in my knee, sprained back, AND I get to finish my WORK week! But I have such pretty... pretty medication. It makes me so very happy... Please review and let me know how I'm doing! I'm working on the next chapter for Red Balloons too, in case anyone is wondering... Thankies my darling readers!

Psst... if you're looking for more good POTO fanfics, check out "The Story Teller". And leave that wonderful author a review as well!

* * *

A week flew by for Charlotte and Erik.

Between working hard as a chorus girl and attempting to flail her way through the easier dances, talking every night with Erik, and getting to know shy Anna and kind Meg better, Charlotte was close to exhaustion. Only practicing maybe two hours a night, she had insisted on spending as much time—if not more—simply 'hanging out' with Angel. He had been happy at the suggest, if a little taken aback. He wasn't used to someone, especially a woman, wanting to spend time with him just for spending time's sake. Of course, this meant that Charlotte had started to sleep very little. Some times she would fall asleep to the sound of the mysterious "Angel's" voice; every time, she would wake up back in her bed, tucked in. This simple act cemented her suspicions. She didn't believe he was an angel anymore than she believed Carlotte was truly talented. Whoever he was, he had a wry sense of humour that matched her own slightly warped one, a voice to die for, was highly intelligent in a wide variety of subjects, and sometimes unutterably morose... she was okay with letting him stay in the shadows. A man like him—for she believed that he was only a talented man—would have his reasons for not appearing. She wouldn't push him... for now.

On the morning of her eighth day in the past and present of the Opera Populaire, Madame Giry informed all of the chorus girls that they would be practicing on the grand stage. Curious, Charlotte eagerly followed the troupe. As the first glimpses of the performance arena met her devouring eyes, she stopped dead. Stunned at the beauty, tears sprang to her eyes.

"It's beautiful," she whispered in awe.

Anna stopped, noticing her expression. Smiling gently, she nodded.

"It is, isn't it? I forget sometimes. It wouldn't be half so lovely if not for the strict instructions of the Phantom of the Opera."

"The Phantom?" she inquired, cocking her head.

"You haven't heard?" Anna hissed, mud-colored eyes growing wide as saucers. "He's the real manager of the Opera Populaire: blackmailing, kidnapping, or murdering to get his way. He rules with an iron fist—I've no doubt that he knew the day, perhaps even the moment, that you arrived."

"So... he's a phantom who throws the mother of all hissy fits if he doesn't get his way?"

"Shhh!" Anna scowled, looking around to make sure no one heard Charlotte. "He knows _everything_ that goes on in this theatre! If you anger him, he'll—he'll—kidnap you, or m-murder you, o-o-o-or w-w-w-w-worse!"

Anna, who unfortunately stuttered whenever she was excited or nervous, spoke a little too loudly., clapping a hand over her mouth with a gasp. Several people around them turned to look at the girl, who blushed brightly and wished the ground would swallow her.

"Well, I don't kidnap easy," Charlotte grinned jokingly. "And if he can't take a little criticism, he's not a very secure Phantom, now is he? I don't mean any harm, he sounds incredibly interesting—if a little foreboding—to talk to."

"The managers, they say he is a genius with music, the ultimate worshipper of the arts. Speaking of worship, I have never met anyone so pious, Charlotte! You go to pray for hours, every night!" Anna whispered adoringly.

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably, feeling bad about deceiving her friend but unwilling to share the highlight of her day as well. Deciding on a compromise, she shook her head a little ruefully.

"I wouldn't exactly call it _praying_... I just kinda talk to him, you know?"

"Talk to Him?" Anna repeated, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

"Yeah... I mean, everybody needs a friend, right? Right? No? Maybe just me, then."

"_Everybody needs a_ …? Oh Charlotte, you are either a saint or a madwoman," Anna sighed.

"I could be both!" she exclaimed defensively.

The two looked at each other before bursting out into giggles. Trying to get them controlled under Madame Giry's stern look, eventually they subsided and were able to sing. A few songs into practice, Madame Giry raised an eyebrow, hearing a distinct difference.

"Charlotte Fairechild!" she barked.

Jumping at the unexpected half-shout, she stepped forward warily. Briskly, Madame Giry thrust several sheets of paper into her hands.

"Sing this!"

"Uhhh..."

"_Now_, Mademoiselle Fairechild!"

Charlotte felt her face pale. Sing... by herself? In front of all these people? Stomach churning, she stumbled over the first few words. Dizzy, she clutched the papers which swam before her eyes with white-knuckled fists. Daring to look up, she regretted it almost instantly. Frowning, she saw the disappointment reflecting in the older woman's eyes. Stiffening, back ramrod-straight, she closed her eyes, losing herself in the music. She pretended that it was just her and Angel, in the beloved little chapel, singing together. Her voice steadily grew more confident. Even when she missed a few notes or pitches, she tried to feel every emotion flowing through the lyrics, convincing herself that his rich vocal ability would cover up her mistakes.

"_No more talk of darkness, forget these wide-eyed fears, I'm here..._"

She poured her heart out—this was a love song between two people who loved each other deeply. Softness and sweetness aside, there was longing met and answered here, overlapping so that it eclipsed where one lover began and the other ended. When she was done, she opened her eyes sheepishly, ducking her head. Madame Giry cleared her throat.

"I'm moving you from the chorus, Charlotte."

She groaned pitifully.

"Was I really that bad?"

"I'm moving you to be La Carlotte's understudy."

Charlotte chuckled.

"You're kidding right? I mean, I've been... er... studying. But I can't have improved that rapidly so quickly..."

"Obviously, you have an exceptional teacher, madamoiselle. I would suggest that you keep working with him—or her—and someday you might even take La Carlotte's place."

And as luck would have it—which was all bad, as far as Charlotte was concerned—the vicious Italian in question happened to overhear that unsettling bit of advice. Fuming, the Italian screeched out loudly enough to cause a stagehand far above to curse, having startled him so badly he slipped, making him hit his head at the infernal noise.

"Stupid bitch!" he yelled down, rubbing his head.

"Maybe, the new little bit of sunshine, Fairechild, will replace her soon, da?" a burly Russian man winked at Jean. He scowled back at him, warily waiting to see if banshee calls took place.

"If the Phantom doesn't kill her first," he muttered.

"Good riddance!" the Russian roared with laughter.

Peering down, Jean watched the drama unfolding a few stories below his precarious position on the catwalks. The Italian was barely being restrained by her not-so-secret lover, overweight Piangi.

"You little—you little _toad_!" she shrieked. "You little ugly _nothing_! I will never be replaced by such _trash_ as you! Fat, ugly—_bitch_!"

Charlotte smiled slightly, the normally reassuring gesture tinged with traces of disturbing maliciousness. Standing her ground with head held high even as the irate banshee advanced menacingly, she waited patiently.

When Carlotte was close enough, Charlotte slugged her as hard as she possibly could in the jaw.

Deathly silence descended for a long few minutes. Charlotte shook her hand, wincing.

Jean, high above, viciously grinned in revenge. He started to clap, his Russian friend joining him, igniting all of the long-suffering stagehands who were constantly looked-down-upon and mistreated at the hands of the spoiled Italian witch. Infectiously, the whole company took up the cry for Carlotte's long-awaited comeuppance. Cheers roared through the onlookers, stagehands hooting, chorus girls and dancers clapping thunderously. Charlotte bowed slightly, grinning.

"Madame, you may call me nothing, you may call me fat, you may call me ugly, you may even call me a bitch—but _nobody_ calls me a _toad_."

Erik, who had wandered above the catacombs when he heard Jean's yell, howled with laughter. Ohh how long he'd desired for someone to do what he had only dreamed of! What a fiery, unbending spirit little Charlotte Fairechild held! And apparently, a pretty impressive right hook as well... he'd have to keep that in mind.

Wailing, Carlotte screamed for the managers while Piangi sputtered in shock. Madame Giry had bit her lip to keep from laughing with the rest, barely managing to hold her stern expression. Anna, though shooting her friend a disapproving glare, was also struggling not to smile.

"_**I WANT HER FIRED!"**_ she screamed at the top of her lungs.

A few glass panes broke distantly.

"Wh—what happened to your _face_, signora?" Andre gasped. Firmin valiantly attempted to hold a straight face, but he could not quite manage to look concerned. To be perfectly honest, both managers—who suffered daily from their trials dealing with all things Carlotte—were secretly congratulating the little chorus girl who had _finally_ done what they couldn't, dare not, do. They would have to fire her, of course; but they would send her off with a _tidy_ sum in repayment. It would be worth every franc.

Erik's laughter subsided. His little Fairechild had gotten herself in a bit of trouble, but he was more than happy to help her out. Gleefully, he dropped a note that he hastily sealed with his trademark red wax skull. It drifted slowly, as if in a dream, and everyone became silent.

Hands shaking, Firmin snatched it and began to read out loud.

"If you attempt to fire Miss Fairechild for defending herself—_and doing what I have only dreamed of—_a _fatal_ accident will occur to La Carlotte!"

The spoiled Italian vixen for once was utterly speechless, giving a groan before passing into a dead faint. Piangi was the only one who reached for her. With not a little satisfaction, the Company saw that the troublesome woman's jaw was already swelling horrendously.

"To Charlotte!" the stagehands cheered, lifting her up onto their shoulders.

"To the Phantom!" she corrected. "For ensuring I do not get fired!" she laughed.

They quieted, shocked senseless. It almost seemed... like, like _heresy_, in some way. But Charlotte lifted an imperious eyebrow, clearing her throat. Collectively shrugging, they echoed the cry.

"To the Phantom!" they shouted eagerly. Soon the shout was echoed throughout the Opera Populaire; for the first time in many years, the sound of his name was in triumph and not in fear.

Wonder lit Erik's face, tears prickling. Did she know what she had done for him? For this one moment, he was not the frightening monster but the conquering hero. He closed his eyes, revelling in the sound. He was sure that he would never forget this single, shining light where he felt like a man and not a monster.

Shrieking with delighted laughter as the whole company took up the cry, Charlotte hoped that somewhere the Phantom could hear. She owed this exhilaration to him, after all, for shielding her from the unpleasant consequences of her admittedly violent reaction to the repulsive woman. But ohh, the outburst had felt to sinfully _good_; she had watched the hellion bully Anna humiliatingly, taunt and belittle _everyone_. And like she had always done, Charlotte stood up to the bully

_It's nice to know that everything else can change—where I am, __**when**__ I am—but some things will always remain the same. That __**I **__will remain who I've always been._

It was reassuring, almost ridiculously so. So much had been stripped away from Charlotte, removed not only from every_one_ she knew, but almost from every_thing_ she'd known as well; she'd begun to fear that she was losing herself on top of everything else. Was she going crazy?

_Nah,_ she concluded. _Not anymore than I've ever been at least. Hey, it's something. Charlie, you gotta work with what you got._

As the impromptu celebration winded down, she felt a strange happiness surge through her. Life would be okay. She'd fallen off the edge of her universe, but ever so slowly the universe was lifting her back up again. In the end, she'd come to realize, life was pretty similar no matter what times you lived in. People still wanted the same things, loved and hated the same ways. It was just how they went about it that was different. The constancy had lifted a burden off of the independent Charlotte's shoulders. It was a wisdom that she felt had been hard-earned.

She was still grieving for the life she'd had, in the world she'd had, whenever she had a moment of privacy. She'd broken down and cried for awhile in some little cranny she'd discovered—and she'd nearly cried herself to sleep. She'd taken deep breaths, calmed by the sound of exquisite music coming from the distance, which she vaguely accredited to the orchestra. It'd helped ground her, stabilize her chaotic emotions. So yes, it still wasn't easy for the incredulous time-traveler; it was base humiliation to have to ask Anna about how she should defecate, menstruate, or practice personal hygiene. Anna, to her credit, had been patient and understanding beyond words... which was one of the underlying motivations for punching Carlotte today. Her friend deserved to be stood up for.

Squaring her shoulders, Charlotte grinned and laughed throughout dinner. People constantly came up to her and thanked her. A few of the more daring men even offered to... _repay_... her. Every time they did, she'd smiled politely, cringing, making up an excuse. The last man had tried her patience so much, she'd calmly informed him that she was gay, just to make him leave. It was a story she'd used plenty of times in the past, but had forgotten that such awareness probably hadn't bled back through time with her.

"Such a lovely gay madamoiselle," he'd leered.

"That is quite enough," Madame Giry intervened coldly. "Back to your table, or else I'll see to it you're dismissed. I will not have one of my girls harassed this way."

"Beggin' your pardon, miss," he'd replied slyly. "But unless the bloody Phantom himself deals with me, I'll be chasin' this fine bit o' skirt 'til it's round her ankles. I'm the best workman here," he'd grinned, assured that he was invaluable. No one else would go down and get the props, or go up to secure the catwalks, for fear of meeting the chilling Phantom.

Charlotte's mouth had dropped open in blind fury at being addressed as such, unable to form words around her mounting rage.

"We'll see," Madame Giry bit out.

"Here now!" another stagehand cut in angrily. "You'll not be talking about any lady like that, or else you'll answer to _me_." He raised a large fist menacingly.

"Aww now, Jean, it was all just a bit of fun," the stage manager whined.

"I don't think the lady was enjoying it... _and neither was I_," he growled.

Glaring stonily at the cretin until he slithered away, Jean turned back to the ladies. Charlotte, who had ripped apart a poor innocent bread roll as she imagined it was the horrible man's neck, grinned in thanks at the ruggedly attractive saviour. He was a large, solid man—his shoulders were wide, strong. His brown hair and beard were neatly trimmed; his hands, which were the size of dinner plates, were calloused and rough. Charlotte had seen him yelling out directions or curses to other stagehands; this was the first time she'd seen him up close. She smiled at him wryly.

"Thanks, mister...?"

"Jean Poiroux, madamoiselle Fairechild. I apologize for his behaviour—we are not all his sort, I assure you."

"Don't apologize for someone else's sins, Monsieur Poiroux. And I learned a long time ago not to judge everyone by a single person's actions."

Giving a small smile, Jean nodded his head, quietly excusing himself. Charlotte watched him walk away in curiousity but soon dismissed it. Tonight, Angel had promised her that he was going to give her some of his own music to sing—she felt as excited as a little kid on Christmas. It was a little silly, she realized, but the feeling wouldn't budge or diminish no matter how much she tried to reason it away. She'd mentally shrugged, rolling with it. She'd been looking forward all day to what Angel would write. No doubt it would be a little brooding and melodramatic, but it would be _fun_.

And there would be no slimy assholes around to ruin it. That was a plus.

* * *

Erik was absolutely _furious_.

How _dare_ that—that _creature_, that _sewer rat_ talk to Charlotte that way! He would have to find him. Repeatedly, he had demanded the bumbling managers fire the creeping rat they'd let in a few years ago, and know it seemed the Phantom would have to... _retire_ Monsieur Garoux himself.

His hand went for his Punjab lasso, but stilled. Charlotte was expecting him in the chapel later, and she had already been mistreated enough for one day. And Erik had been looking forward to hearing her sweet, husky voice sing with him again. If he was fortunate enough, then another (mutual?) vision might occur as they sang. He felt like he was trying to put together a puzzle, missing some of the pieces and without knowing the picture...

Kind, stubborn Charlotte Fairechild utterly mystified him.

He knew that if she saw his face—his _hideous_ face—then he would lose his only friend. But if he was cautious... if he bided his time... perchance he had an opportunity to make her see him as the man behind the monster. He could make her a star! Surely then, she would lo-

Deep inside his soul, Erik groaned. No. He did _not_ love Charlotte Fairechild. She was an infatuation, a novelty—nothing more. How could she be? What woman would give up a world of sunlight and dancing for his music of the night? He would be a fool to even consider it.

And yet... he hoped.


End file.
